


Thursday, 12:36am

by CirrusGrey



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, POV Second Person, Short, because i have no consistency with my tagging, martin is gone and jon is sad, rated teen for one (1) swear, there's really not much else to say about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 18:53:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19215454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CirrusGrey/pseuds/CirrusGrey
Summary: How do you say goodbye to someone who never officially left?





	Thursday, 12:36am

How do you say goodbye to someone who never officially left? When there was no moment of parting, no definite change you could point to and say,  _ that, that is when I lost them? _ When  _ see you soons _ turned to  _ too busy to talks _ turned to  _ it's been a whiles _ turned to silence, with no warning for the complete and utter absence that would follow? When they were supposed to be just a phone call away, but it might as well be a million miles when you don't know how that call will be received?

How do you move on?

There are advantages to tearing a bandage off all at once, you think. Tim's desk was cleared by the time you returned, a gaping, hollow emptiness that finally allowed you to accept he was gone. Daisy never had anything  _ to _ clear; still, it's not like you  _ expected _ to see her again. 

Basira has started using his desk to store extra file boxes, the ones they have gone through and dismissed as unimportant. Melanie has stolen the chair to use as a footrest. Bit by bit, the drawers have been cleared as office supplies are located and pilfered.

As time passes, a slow process of attrition turns it into just another desk. 

It's still  _ his. _

He never  _ left. _

(You helped him move it in, you remember, back when all this was new. Muscles stretched to their limit, dragging it across the unvarnished and splintering floor. There had been only two desks in the room when Gertrude died, and he'd offered to take the battered and scratched one from storage so the others could have the nicer, new ones. It had been a bad day, sweating and straining in the stifling stagnant air of the basement. You'd give anything to go back and change your  _ at least we never have to do that again _ to a  _ glad I didn't have to do that alone.) _

(You'd give anything to go back.)

One of these days you'll call him. Just phone him up and tell him everything he's missed, everything you've whispered to yourself in the dark and lonesome nights that he really ought to know.  _ We don't even have to bring up work, _ you'll say.  _ Let's just talk about ourselves. I've missed you.  _

One of these days. 

(The discarded scripts and lists of everything you've ever meant to say litter your desk and your mind, shoved in drawers you try not to open. Every now and then you pull them out, add to them, take things off. How exactly  _ should _ you broach that topic? Is there a good way to lead into it, or should you just come right out and say it? Maybe you should invite him out to lunch and you can discuss it over sandwiches.)

You never do. Next week, you say. There'll be time. Next week, and you'll be ready for it. 

It helps, telling yourself you can. It helps, to think you've got a chance to be brave later, even if you're not right now. 

(And if he had just said goodbye you wouldn't  _ have _ to be brave, but you're not allowed to grieve someone who's still here, and it's worse not knowing if he wants you back than if he'd just told you to fuck off. A little bit of hope can do an awful lot of damage to a person, and you can't risk doing something that will crush it out of you entirely. Now, in limbo, you might still get him back.)

Next week. Next week you'll call, and then you'll know for sure. You'll wish you'd called sooner. He misses you too.

(...Right?)

The desk is as clear as Tim's, as impersonal as Sasha's, but it's still  _ his. _ He still has that privilege and that right, to return and reclaim it whenever he wishes. 

The lists grow and change, topics revising as they become relevant or fade away. One day, you even go so far as to pull up his contact information on your phone, but you do not make the call. Next week, you say again, next week and you'll be brave.

How do you say goodbye to someone who never left?

You don't.


End file.
